In 1995, a guy who looked more like a grunge roadie than a travel journalist boarded a luxury cruise ship. He had a bandana, a mild agoraphobia problem, and a massive commission from Harper’s Magazine. That man was David Foster Wallace. The essay he turned in, Shipping Out, would eventually be renamed "A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again," but for many of us, that original magazine title carries a different weight. It’s shorter. Grittier. It feels like a warning.
What Wallace found on the m.v. Zenith wasn’t just bad buffet food. He found a kind of spiritual horror. He realized that when you pay someone to pamper you to death, you’re basically paying to be treated like a giant, helpless infant. It’s a weirdly dark thought for a vacation.
Shipping Out David Foster Wallace: The 7NC Experience
When we talk about shipping out David Foster Wallace style, we’re talking about a very specific type of existential dread. Wallace spent seven nights on a Caribbean cruise (the "7NC" in his shorthand) and came back with a 20,000-word manuscript. He didn't just observe the ship; he dissected it. He renamed the Zenith the Nadir—the lowest point.
The prose is chaotic but precise. He talks about the "shattering, flatulence-of-the-gods-like sound" of the ship’s horn. He describes the toilets that suck with a vacuum-force so terrifying you fear for your internal organs. It’s funny, honestly. Until it isn't.
The Fantasy of Total Care
Cruises sell a dream of "Total Pampering." Wallace argues this is actually a nightmare. If every need is anticipated before you even feel it, your "WANT" muscle starts to atrophy. You become a "bovine" consumer.
He noticed that the harder the crew worked to make him happy, the more miserable he felt. Why? Because the service was so perfect it became invisible, which made him feel like a ghost. Or worse, like a tyrant. He felt guilty for being served by Lebanese porters who worked "Dickensianly hard" while he sat on a deck chair contemplating his own decay.
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Why the Harper's Version Matters
Most people read the version in his 1997 essay collection. But the original shipping out David Foster Wallace piece in Harper’s (January 1996) was a leaner, meaner beast. It had to be. Magazines have space limits, even for geniuses.
- The Original Title: Shipping Out: On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise.
- The Editing: The book version is significantly longer, including those legendary footnotes that sometimes take up half the page.
- The Vibe: The magazine version felt more like a report from the front lines of American consumerism.
There is a famous story about the editing process. Wallace apparently sent in a draft that was nearly double the requested length. The editors at Harper’s had to hack away at it, which probably helped create that sharp, staccato rhythm we love.
The Controversy: Did He Make It Up?
Years after Wallace’s death, fellow writer Jonathan Franzen dropped a bit of a bombshell. He claimed that Wallace "fabricated" parts of his nonfiction. Specifically, the dialogue.
If you read shipping out David Foster Wallace today, you have to ask: did that elderly couple really say those exact, perfectly-timed comedic lines? Probably not. Wallace wasn't a tape recorder. He was an essayist. He was trying to get to a deeper truth about the American psyche, even if he had to polish the quotes to get there. Does it ruin the essay? Kinda depends on if you're a journalism purist or just looking for a good story. Honestly, most fans don't care. The "truth" of the despair he describes feels realer than a literal transcript anyway.
The Psychological Shadow of the Nadir
Wallace mentions Carl Jung's idea of the "shadow"—the parts of ourselves we hide. A cruise ship is designed to be all "persona." It’s all bright colors, professional smiles, and "guaranteed fun."
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But Wallace saw the shadow. He saw it in the "Professional Hospitality" industry’s desperation to please. He saw it in the way passengers would get angry over the tiniest inconveniences, like a towel being slightly damp.
The Despair of Choice
One of his big points is that "fun" shouldn't be mandatory. On the ship, you are ordered to have a good time. If you aren't smiling, the staff asks if something is wrong. This creates a weird pressure. It’s the anxiety of having too many options and knowing that, no matter what you choose, you’re missing out on something else.
How to Read DFW Today
If you’re just getting into shipping out David Foster Wallace, don't try to power through it in one sitting. It's dense. It's meant to be chewed on.
- Read the footnotes. Seriously. They aren't "extra" info; they are the heart of his brain.
- Look for the "Little Lebanese Cabin Boy." This character (Petra) becomes a focal point for Wallace’s guilt.
- Watch for the Captain Video subplot. Wallace becomes obsessed with a guy filming everything, seeing him as the only "objective" observer on a ship full of stage-managed experiences.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Traveler
You don't have to be a nihilist to enjoy a cruise, but reading Wallace might change how you pack your bags.
Recognize the Marketing: The brochures promise "Relaxation Becomes Second Nature." Wallace reminds us that relaxation is actually hard work. Don't beat yourself up if you aren't having the "time of your life" every second of a vacation.
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Humanize the Staff: Wallace’s guilt stemmed from seeing the crew as cogs. If you’re traveling, make a conscious effort to acknowledge the labor behind your luxury. It keeps you grounded.
Limit Your Choices: The "despair of the buffet" is real. To avoid the Wallace-level existential crisis, stop trying to do everything. Pick one or two things and ignore the rest of the itinerary.
Embrace the "Nadir": Sometimes, a vacation is just a place to be miserable in a different zip code. That's okay. Acknowledging that the "Supposedly Fun Thing" might not be fun is the first step to actually enjoying yourself.
For your next step, go find a copy of the January 1996 Harper’s or the essay collection. Compare the two. Notice how the voice changes when he's given more room to breathe. It’s a masterclass in how to turn a simple travel assignment into a permanent piece of American literature.